Snap open

My grandma hated photographers. She thought the camera lens sucked all the years of your life away. And the flash was supposesd to be an instant skin-tanning agent. So when my dad turned paprazzi for me-the-2-year-old, her trust in the world ended.
"Can't you just remember that she ate mud cake with pebbles for cherries? Do you have to take a (gasp)photo? Oh, and the toothless yawn is not soooo important to be 'file photo'. So the sun is shining on her drool... so what?"
But there was no stopping my dad. Ok, maybe running for the camera when i swallowed dettol instead of cough syrup reduced his chances of getting a Father's day card, but it was still very, errr.. fatherly(?). And since he doesn't read this blog, i can bravely tell the world that he is the best cross-dresser any 3-year-old could laugh at! It induced my first rolling with guffaw-ter.
If there was a yucky Farex meal to be stuffed down my throat, there he was, telepathically willing me to stick my tongue out and put the bib to good use. I still maintain that it was common disdain for the photographer in my dad that brought my mother and his a lot closer.
"She will think the lens is your face," said my mom to my dad. (Yes. She attempted humour sometimes.) But I didn't care how my dad's face was... after all, he chased a stray dog around to drill it into my obstinate head that he (the dog, not my dad) was not a horse. He also made me believe that, just by standing behind the handlebar of the lambretta scooter, and doing "bruuuum... bruum..." sounds with my mouth, I could reach the end of the road. Yaya, it's all in the photo albums.
Considering the number of battles that raged on about the camera, there must be blood on each snap of me trying to grab an imaginary fly. And did I care? Nooo... all I knew was that my dad made me a filmstar.